


Roseate

by StarvingForAttention



Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarvingForAttention/pseuds/StarvingForAttention
Summary: A spot of gardening can take an ugly turn in the Constant.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647067
Comments: 8
Kudos: 88





	Roseate

If he had ever been asked about it in his former life, Wilson would have been the first in line to admit he wasn't a botanist. He had had a penchant for mixing up daisies and daffodil, and had found himself wholly lost at sea if the conversation turned to hollyhocks and rhododendrons back before he had isolated himself.

Like most things, that too had changed in the Constant. With time, he had learned to discern between the flowers he plucked from the ground, and had noticed the subtle differences consuming their petals had. Selective breeding hadn't come till ten winters and fifteen deaths later, but there he was now, finally getting somewhere.

For now.

But then, "for now" was far better than "never", and so he looked up from the soil and admired his handiwork. All around him, roses in full bloom mingled with fresh buds, swaying gently in the morning sun and burgeoning over the picket fence he had built to encircle his little garden. Soon enough the first frost would claim them all, but for now, they served as a ready supply of health supplements — after three generations of refinement, a single petal healed as much as an entire flower in the wild — and more importantly, as balm to his mind. 

He walked down the narrow footpath, mindful of the thorns, taking in the scents and looking for any plants that required trimming or a boost from his watering can. It didn't serve to get attached to anything in the Constant, not even after surviving for three whole winters in a row as he had now, but it happened regardless. Human nature, he supposed, and allowed himself to be charmed by the beauty of his little garden. Bright red flowers everywhere, all of which he had planted himself.

And something he hadn't.

Wilson halted by the black rose. It rose half a foot above the already tall roses in the nearby bushes, its lone blossom as big as his hand. Looking closer, it too was red: a dark, shadowy hue, like the plant had been immersed in ink.

He considered the flower, certain it hadn't been there when he had last been to the garden. It had to be a nightmare flower, the kind that rose from the earth near ruins and highly suspicious trees.

Wilson crouched down and prepared his shears. Whether he recognised it or not, he didn't want such reminders of the rest of the Constant anywhere near his garden. Like with lureplants and overly friendly pigmen, it was best to nip things in the bud.

With that thought, he took a firm grip of the stem of the plant.

"Ouch!"

He flinched away, eyes wide. One of the rose's blade-like thorns had gone through his protective gloves like they were nothing more than gossamer — which, granted, they mostly were. Peeling them off, he discovered a small puncture wound in his left index finger. A single drop of blood trickled out, as bright as a blossom.

Wilson rolled his eyes and sucked the wound clean. After seeing his own entrails spill out of his body on more than one occasion, a minor scrape like this only registered due to risk of infection. He'd treat it back at camp.

He stashed the glove in his waistband and put the other one back on, taking hold of the stem with his unharmed hand, far more mindful of the thorns.

He had only just positioned the shears when his vision turned to fog. He blinked. The shapes around him only became more indistinct.

He had just enough wherewithal to discard the shears and seek purchase from the ground when his legs turned into liquid. He fell slowly, so slowly it didn't seem like there was a ground at all any longer, only a dark, infinite abyss...

* * *

There was a brief, blessed moment, during a pleasant pink haze floated behind Wilson's closed eyes and everything was right in the world.

He was relaxed, for one, loose and boneless in a way he had forgotten was possible after countless nights slept with one eye open. He was warm, too, almost like the summer heat had returned and enveloped him in an embrace. All of his hunger and thirst and aches felt so far away, like they belonged to another person altogether. It was like all suffering had been banished.

It was so delightful he would gladly have turned to his side and gone back to sleep if more details hadn't filtered in. There was weight on his body, manageable but strange all the same. More disconcertingly, there was a pressure on his chin, like a hand was gripping it.

Even that he could and did ignore till the hand began to squeeze his chin. Wilson furrowed his brow and tossed his head to the side in an effort to shake it off, to no avail: the fingers only dug deeper into his cheeks and forced his head back into position.

"Ow!" At that involuntary outburst, Wilson opened his eyes.

He was greeted by a wide grin and the cold gleaming eyes of a predator. 

The sight was an entire ocean of ice water tossed down his neck. It had been a long time since Wilson had last encountered the man, but not nearly long enough. "Maxwell! You—" 

His curse was cut short when Maxwell clapped a hand over his mouth. He made a muffled protest, trying and failing to toss his head about and to free his limbs from underneath Maxwell. Maxwell only widened his grin and leaned closer. Too close, far too close.

There was nothing else Wilson could do. He sought with his mouth the soft fleshy part of Maxwell's hand between thumb and forefinger. That done, he bit down hard, ignoring the sour taste and unyielding texture of the glove encasing the hand.

It worked, at least momentarily. Maxwell relinquished his hold and pulled backwards, raising his upper body off from Wilson. Wilson took the opportunity to wriggle himself out from under him, fighting against Maxwell's weight and the hand gripping his wrist — get it off, get it _off!_ — till finally, no part of him was touching him.

Maxwell made no effort to capture him again as he caught his breath. He sat back with a smug look on his face, examining his bitten hand with something akin to curiosity. "Don't you know your fairy tales, pal? Sleeping Beauty should thank Prince Charming for saving his miserable hide."

"I didn't ask for your help!" Wilson wiped at his mouth in an effort to rid himself of the taste of leather, then again with renewed vigour as the meaning of Maxwell's words sank in. "You kissed me?"

Maxwell kept smirking at Wilson like he was some amusing sideshow. Against the backdrop of roses, he looked like an evil, over-dressed scarecrow. "You ought to show some gratitude. I could have easily let you slumber till night-time."

Wilson realised with a jolt that the sun was setting. Just how long had he been under? Several hours, at the very least. And for how many of those hours had Maxwell been there, laughing at him and doing whatever he pleased while he couldn't even move a muscle to stop him?

He summoned his best glare. It arrived at once. "As if this wasn't your fault in the first place." It wasn't an accusation as much as it was the simple truth. In retrospect, the black rose was obviously a trap, and if it was a trap, it was Maxwell's trap. Presumably, Wilson had been cheating death for too long to amuse the demon, and so he had decided to stick his big nose into the matter.

His nose, and...

"I'm hurt by these accusations, pal. Really. Haven't I helped you out before?"

Wilson wasn't listening. All the buttons on his shirt and vest were undone. A strange pattern of red indentations ran across his bared chest, like barbed wire. Theoretically, they might have come from a rose bush, but the smug look plastered on Maxwell's face suggested otherwise.

"What did you do to me?" Wilson brought his hand to his neck, discovering what felt like bruises and what was almost certainly a bite mark. His heart sank. No points for guessing where those had come from.

Maxwell shrugged. "I was being a gracious host by making you more comfortable."

Wilson dropped his hand, and with it his gaze. The buttons of his fly were likewise undone, something he had half expected. He hadn't expected the rest. Blood crept up his neck as he saw the tell-tale bulge straining against his trousers, painful and impossible to ignore now that he was aware of it.

Without thinking, he brought his legs closer to his torso, shielding his crotch from gaze. Only his familiarity with Maxwell, which told him any sign of weakness was an excuse for his tormentor to up the ante, kept him from shrinking further away.

But then, Maxwell had already upped the ante. The real question was by how much.

There were no good answers, but he swallowed and asked anyway. "I mean it, Maxwell. What did you do to me?"

"Nothing you weren't ready for, pal." Maxwell stretched his long limbs like a cat relaxing after a successful prowl. "Your little bud opened up to me as nicely as any other in this garden."

Wilson blinked at him, not following. Then, the blood curdled in his veins.

He couldn't help it. He flinched, violently, leaning as far away from Maxwell as possible before he caught himself. Even after that, there was no stopping his heart, drumming like it was the end of the world, or the cold sweat rising to his brow.

It had to be a joke. Maxwell hadn't... he couldn't have...

He would have.

Maxwell leered at him for a long while as he wrestled with the possibility, then barked with sudden laughter. "Don't flatter yourself. Do you think yourself so irresistible I couldn't wait to stick my prick in you? Although..." he flicked a finger towards Wilson's forehead. "Your new hairstyle _is_ rather becoming."

"My what?" Wilson asked without really paying attention, still trying to discern exactly how Maxwell had molested him. His backside didn't feel significantly different from how it had before he had fallen unconscious, and any wetness was probably just sweat. Surely he could have told without hesitation if Maxwell really had... — his stomach lurched as he searched for an appropriate word and found one — if Maxwell had raped him. Surely. 

Only, could he ever actually be sure?

Out of the blue, Maxwell's long index finger hovered right before his eyes. The man had come closer without making a sound. "This style, of course. Very fetching."

Pulling away from Maxwell, ignoring his trembling legs and the insistent throbbing between them, Wilson looked around till eyes fell upon the watering can. Against all odds, it had remained upright as he had collapsed. Assuming the water hadn't evaporated in the daytime sun, it was still half full.

He inched towards it, irked by Maxwell's knowing smirk, and stared down at his reflection. His hair, though still upright, was frizzled out and so black it looked burned. That, however, paled in comparison to the bright red stripe above his eye, as crimson as blood, starting from his brow and rising all the way to the top.

He ran his fingers through his hair. They came back with pink smudges on them.

His blood rose to a boiling point.

He turned towards Maxwell full of righteous fury, all sense of self-preservation forgotten. "How dare you?"

"It's like you don't appreciate my gift at all." It was like someone had flicked a switch on Maxwell's tone.

The bottom fell off of Wilson's stomach, but his anger didn't subside. He was so sick of being tortured and harassed, sick of being treated like a plaything, sick of the threats and insinuations and unwanted touches. He was sick of the very idea of Maxwell. Even knowing it would lead to his doom, there was only so much Wilson could do to keep his wrath from bubbling over.

"I don't," he said. His voice only shook due to anger, he was sure of it. "You have no right to touch my hair."

Maxwell's smile was gone. 

Wilson began to back away. Too slowly.

The watering can fell over, staining the soil dark where the water spilled as Wilson struggled — he always struggled, always fought back, was always aware it didn't matter in the slightest — but it wasn't long till he was pinned flat against the ground with Maxwell's weight on top of him, pushing him down with far more force than should dwell in such a thin frame. A hand snatched his wrist into a crushing grip. Another snaked down to his crotch.

"Would you prefer a different gift, pal?" Maxwell spoke softly, dripping with quiet venom. For emphasis, he grabbed Wilson through his trousers with several more sharp claws than was ever necessary.

Wilson gritted his teeth together, desperate to squirm away. When Maxwell loosened his grip, he managed to crawl all of two inches before being forced prone again, face to face with his tormentor.

"I can make bring over finer breeds of roses if you'd like," Maxwell continued, responding to Wilson's struggles by tightening the grip around his wrist to pulverising. Tears sprung to Wilson's eyes. "There's a beautiful white rose growing in the northern ruins. A single touch of its spikes would leave your body completely paralysed, with your mind whirling as ever. Not to your taste? There's another one with prickles which increase both the pain and pleasure you feel tenfold." His breath was hot against Wilson's mouth. "You'd like a prick, wouldn't you, pal?"

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut to escape the hungry gleam in Maxwell's eyes and shook his head with everything he had. At some point, Maxwell's hand had gone from prodding and pinching to rubbing gentle circles across his genitals, coaxing and teasing, so good even though it was absolutely the worst...

His hips bucked into the touch. 

He stilled himself, utterly mortified, using his last shred of willpower to do so. His body was a fool who thought it was a great idea to shed off all of his clothes when he had hypothermia. It would betray him again without a second thought.

"Let me go," he said instead, hoping to sound authoritative. When Maxwell inevitably didn't, he raised his voice. "Let me go!"

"Oh, please." Maxwell was amused again. His touch grew harder and more insistent. "We both know what you really want is for me to—"

"No!" He summoned all his remaining strength, pushing against Maxwell with everything he had. He wrenched himself away, wild, desperate...

And free.

Scarcely believing it himself, Wilson kept retreating till his back hit a rosebush. Its prickles pierced through the back of his vest and shirtsleeves.

Shifting aside till they no longer touched him, he swallowed the bile in his mouth and wiped his eyes dry, then allowed his fraying dignity to stoke his wrath. "I never want you to touch me again! Ever! I'd rather have you kill me a thousand times instead!"

All the while, Maxwell sat in place, silently staring at Wilson with an unreadable expression. 

Finally, he spoke. "Is that a promise?"

"Yes." Wilson's hands were shaking. He balled them into fists. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself."

Maxwell said nothing.

With sick certainty, Wilson acknowledged he was a dead man walking. It was time for his final words. This time, he was going to make them count. "I know I can't stop you right now, but it doesn't matter. I don't care how many times you break my body. You will never have my mind, and as long I have that, I have everything."

Still silent, Maxwell swiped an imaginary piece of lint off his lapel. Wilson was certain he was about to point out the holes in his claim. That he did care about what happened to his body, if not now then at least the next time Maxwell began snapping his bones into pieces. That he had only seen the tip of the iceberg that was Maxwell's depravity. That he hadn't come anywhere near the outer limits of his own madness. That "right now" wouldn't change for all eternity...

Instead, Maxwell only smiled. "Even mountains crumble, Wilson. A day will come when you will beg for me."

Wilson shuddered — at the threat? At the sound of his name? — but kept his back held straight. "It won't be today."

Slowly, Maxwell leaned away. He shrugged, an exaggerated, theatrical gesture, his grin widening alongside the span of his arms.

And then he was gone.

Wilson stared at the empty air. It had to be another trick. The moment he let his guard down, Maxwell would reappear and tear out his throat or worse. Worse, probably. Finally decisively knowing what "worse" meant, the nauseating certainty of just how deeply Maxwell would violate him one of these days, left him feeling exhausted and hollow as his bravado drained out of him.

At least it had brought him this far.

After it was clear he wouldn't make it back to camp before nightfall if he didn't hurry, he stood up on shaking legs, hot and tense and breathing heavily. He ran his hand over his ruined hair one last time before buttoning himself up, forcing himself to inhale and exhale slowly as he did so. 

It was over for the time being. Now, it was time to survive. To hobble over to camp. To light a fire and take certain matters into his own hand. To figure out if what he desperately hoped was dye could be washed out of his hair.

And to never think of roses again if he could avoid it.


End file.
